


A Coward's Weapon

by PGT



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Fantasy AU, RvB Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-21
Updated: 2017-02-21
Packaged: 2018-09-26 03:14:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9859646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PGT/pseuds/PGT
Summary: Follow Donald Doyle, heir to the throne of Armonia as he takes on the world outside the castle to avenge his family joined by Emily Grey, an Illusionist with a quest of her own and Locus, a Protector Magician hired by the king to guard his son.





	

**Author's Note:**

> as a big bang fic, there is art to go along with this, and you can find it on @redwyvernart 's tumblr here (GO FOLLOW THEM WHILE YOU'RE AT IT :P):  
> http://redwryvernart.tumblr.com/post/157543470945/rvb-big-bang-2017-my-writer-was-the-lovely  
> Beta'ing done by the fantastic @alopexthefox (who also has great fics on ao3, check em out!)

Donald Doyle would never be king. In position, he was low on the list of heirs, but even if he’d wanted to be a king, (which he assuredly did not), Donald simply wasn’t meant to play the part. He was a closed-minded coward and almost unrealistically prone to fainting. God help the day the kingdom relied on their seventh heir to stay afloat.

As a teenager, Doyle had no responsibilities and was content in solitude. He was not required to learn weapon handling like his brothers, and was grateful for this, as every aspect of combat made him nauseous. So, while his six brothers and sisters practiced swordplay and archery, Doyle indulged himself in the castle library. In the warmer months, he would sneak a book from the libraries and ride into the inner city, preferring to read in the sunlit parks. In the inner city, his blond hair and fair, freckled skin went unrecognized; most of the royal family had fair skin, but their hair had almost always come out as a muddled brown. A quick wardrobe change had Doyle completely separated from the royal family.

There was a night late in winter when Doyle chose to read in the parks that changed his life. The moon was full, and he’d ached for fresh air after his father scolded him for avoiding riding practice. (He was deathly afraid of horses.)

The trees were bare and white with recently fallen snow. The fountain was still, and the grounds were untouched by the public.

A book of poems held under one arm, Doyle brushed snow off a marble bench and sat down. The lighting made it hard to read, but the book was comprised of his favourites, and he had no trouble remembering the words he couldn’t make out. He read a poem titled _The Fox Who Stole Violets_ before the noise of humming caused his attention to drift towards the fountain.

A girl, shrouded in a translucent lilac mist, appeared to levitate before the fountain. Her legs were pressed against her chest, arms holding them in place. Her shoeless feet angled sharply downward, and stringy black hair rolled down her back and face.

It was a miracle that Doyle didn’t faint immediately. Instead of fear, his first thought focused not on the girl’s ability to levitate, or the mist shrouding her, but to the girl’s attire. She wore a white dress that reached mid-thigh, but was otherwise unprotected by the cold.

Doyle thought to his fur-trimmed coat, and swallowed the knot in his throat.

“Miss, please take my coat, you must be dreadfully cold!”

 

She didn’t respond.

“Miss?”

As if an apparition, she dissolved into the air. Doyle blinked frantically.

The girl was gone, and he decided that she must have been a figment of his imagination caused by exhaustion. He stood from the bench and turned to take the path towards the castle.

She was sitting four feet above the road, now. He looked at her, petrified. Not only did the girl seem to be capable of magic, but the most frightening observation was of her eyes. She had no pupils, and her eyes seemed to glow as bright as, if not brighter than, the full moon above them. He racked his mind for something to say, but the girl acted first.

Keeping eye contact, she unfolded herself and shifted to his standing position. Her arms fell to her sides and her feet barely made contact with the snowy ground. Her head tilted as if in thought, and the orbiting cloud of mist suddenly shifted. It coiled around her form and transformed into a near identical fur coat to Doyle’s, only different in the way hers glistened like oil in the moonlight.

The gears clicked in place then, and Doyle’s legs were again his own. He ran to an alternative road and didn’t stop running until he was in the castle garden. The windows and doors to his quarters were tightly locked that night, and his book of poems was long forgotten.

He woke to a maid’s thundering knock and shouts to “unlock the damned door,” having forgotten the night before in his barely-awake state.

Shuffling to the door with closed eyes, he fumbled the lock open and was greeted by its forceful shove slamming him in the nose, the unmuffled shouts ringing in his ears as he fell to the floor in pain.

The maid was silent as he stood up and blinked to full lucidity.

In his room were a shocked maid, a floor littered with flower petals, and a girl in a fur coat with a book of poems at the foot of his bed.

{}

Magicians were not entirely uncommon on Chorus. The term described a subcategory of humans born with magic in their bodies—a living form of energy that forms a symbiotic relationship with the magician. Dependent on the magic’s unique capabilities, identified by color, magicians could do a multitude of supernatural things.

While many of those abilities could be used in daily life, there were magicians who could use their powers as weapons. The practice was accepted and even encouraged during their uprise in wartimes, but it was during the Great War that this power left the world in disarray. Non-magicians and magicians partook, but it was clear that over half of the casualties, disregarding alliances, were caused by a trio of mages by the names Samuel Ortez, Mason Wu, and Isaac Gates. They were the strongest magicians to date, and their power was something Armonia greatly feared. It was uncanny how completely they weaponised themselves, how inhuman their death toll was.

But, in the aftermath of the war, the trio was still out there. Mason Wu and Samuel Ortez had fallen into shadow and were deemed MIA, but Isaac’s trademark kills could be found across the country. Non-magicians were afraid, and the king wanted them found, and decreed that magicians find all three. After all, they had a sort of bond, surely magicians could sense the three most powerful fighters in Armonia?

And they could, normally. During the war, it was easy to sense the three warriors, their auras practically encompassed the entire battlefield when magic was being used. Samuel’s dark green aura that barely rose a foot off the ground, but spread miles out, a pool that the three could move freely within through teleportation. Felix’s vibrant orange aura was a weapon kept in a tight cloud beside him, impenetrable to any enemy who managed to get close. And Mason’s a soft purple that went unnoticed, stretched thin enough that it was barely visible, but always viewing and causing subtleties.

 

But in a time without war, the kingdom’s magicians found that they could no longer see their auras or sense their presence. For such powerful beings, it seemed impossible. With no way to find the three mages, the king ordered every magician within the kingdom be killed, with the assurance that it was for the people’s safety. Barely a fortnight had passed, and while the notorious three were never found, it seemed every magician was murdered.

{}

And yet, a girl who clearly possessed magic was found in his own son’ bedroom.

 

Doyle was called to the throne room a month after the girl’s discovery, after third meal.

He didn’t know what to expect, but his father’s scornful expression was hardly a surprise.

“You’ve caused quite an uproar in the capital, Donald.”

“I’m terribly sorry, father.” He kept eye contact as a sign of respect, but everything within him told him to stare at the floor. _‘It isn’t my fault, I didn’t ask for this bizarre girl to follow me!’_

“You can’t just sit in the shadows anymore, boy.”

“Of course, Your Highness.”

_‘Whyever not?! I don’t want any attention!’_

“The girl is going to be living with you henceforth.She’s an asset to us, so long as she’s trained properly. I’m leaving that process to you. She should be getting acquainted with your room now.”

That wasn’t what Doyle expected. She was an magician—surely she would be lynched? And why his room?

He couldn’t bring himself to ask questions. “As you wish, father.”

“You will also begin weapon handling. I’ve acquired a personal trainer—you start on swordsmanship tonight. His name is Locus, make sure to show respect. That is all.”

Donald blanched, but nodded anyways.

His father dismissed him with a gesture and Doyle found himself straining not to sprint out of the room.

So he was getting a roommate with unknown abilities and would start weapon handling with a man named after an insect. Brilliant.

He returned to his room in a downcast mood, craving a distraction within a book and eager to finish the one within his bedside table. He’d already gotten the book from the drawer before he realized the fault in his plan.

His stomach dropped as he recognized the magician hovering above his bed.

“Hello, miss.” He spoke flatly.

She didn’t respond verbally, instead cocking her head and pointing to the book in his hand.

“What about it?”

She retracted her finger and her expression fidgeted, no clear emotion expressed. The aura around her mutated, and she wrote words within them.

_‘Can you read?’_

Doyle scowled, and vaulted onto his bed, and sitting with his legs crossed at the furthest point from the floating girl. “No,” he drawled sarcastically, “can you _talk_?”

The room fell silent, and Doyle opened the book to the tenth chapter, _“Calling”_ . A noise called him back to reality. The girl had her mouth open, moving it as if she were talking, but the noise wasn’t coming through. The words she attempted to speak were spelled out in the violet-tinted air: “ _I cannot speak verbally, but I communicate through magic just fine. May I borrow that?_ ”

“Magic is illegal in Armonia. You’re helpless if that’s all you know.”

‘ _Magic can do many things, I do not need to speak if i use it._ ’

“That doesn’t matter. The king says it’s illegal, so you’d better learn to do things the normal way.”

She hummed in annoyance and motioned with her hand. The book in his hand quivered, and as she flicked her fingers upwards a violet sprouted from the pages.

Doyle yelped and threw the book. “I was reading that, what have you done?!”

‘ _You cannot create a flower-sight without magic._ ’

“I don’t understand what a ‘flower-sight’ is but I do know it’s illegal if it’s made by magic.You’re making me a criminal!”

The air began to move again, but a knocking at the door made the half-formed words dissipate.

“Prince Doyle? I’ve been ordered to ensure you go to your training session.”

He’d barely even touched his book. Doyle grumbled and eyed the girl before leaving. “We’re not finished, you hear?”

If she’d responded, he didn’t stay to read it.

    {}

After donning a set of light armor with the help of a young page, Doyle made his way to the training grounds. He considered backing out briefly, but his father wasn’t someone easily disobeyed. Wooden dummies lined the yard, and racks of training melee weaponry adorned several sections of the wall.    

The area was devoid of people, barring a man at the far end in full armor.

 

He wore it in a way that it was difficult to identify any of his physical features aside from a few strands of long black hair that snuck beneath his helmet and his sun-kissed skin, which Doyle caught from the break between the man’s bracers and gloves.

That wasn’t to say he was hard to identify in a crowd. He was a hulking man, for one, tall like Doyle, but also broad-shouldered with thick limbs. His armor was high-class, smooth charcoal metal plates with sage trim, chain mail at the joints and an unfamiliar crest emblazoned on his chest plate.

But most identifiably “Locus” was the man’s helmet. It was unlike any Doyle had ever seen, as it wasn’t from a predesignated knight classification. Rather, it was custom made, and the commission request could’ve only been “a locust’s head”. It was two pieces, one on the neck that was curved along the skull as well as piece that masked the face, connected by a hinge joint to the back. There were no clear marks for the visor, but the piece above his mouth had a slit for the wearer’s voice to pass through. A weathered green _X_ was painted onto the mask piece.

“Donald Doyle?”

A two-word question that demanded an instant response, and Doyle found himself nodding fiercely.

He pushed off of the wall he’d been reclined on with a soft metal clinking. “Some rules: You will refer to me as Locus, and I will refer to you as Donald. I don’t use honorables and neither will you. The only person I call ‘Your Highness’ is the king. Second, in training, you do exactly as I say, exactly when. The easiest way to get anywhere close to _decent_ is to obey. Third, you don’t bring the criminal to your training sessions. Are we clear?”

Doyle opened his mouth, half expecting to be interrupted. When he wasn’t, his response wobbled meekly. “Yes, sir.”

“Was that your try at a joke?” Never had Doyle anticipated death more than when Locus growled that out. It had been an honest mistake.

“No s— _Locus_. I’m terribly sorry!”

    The man didn’t react, and Doyle wondered only briefly if he had become a statue. He sighed finally, and turned to a weapon rack, lifting his chin to point towards it.

“Let’s get started. Pick one.”

The weapon rack was quite varied, having multiple types of swords—that which Doyle didn’t know the name of, as well as knives, hand axes, and maces. All of the blades were blunted to prevent harm during training. Doyle cautiously lifted a short-sword, turning to Locus for affirmation.

He raised his chin, otherwise remaining still and silent.

“T...this one?”

Locus stalked over, wordlessly taking a sword of equal proportions. It looked twig-like in his hands. Nonetheless, he backed up and took a stance across from Doyle, straight backed, yet somehow relaxed, ready to jump at a moment’s notice.

Doyle stared blankly. “You’re in full armor, sir—”

“ _Locus_. And yes, I am.”

Doyle took the sword and attempted to match Locus’ stance.

They may have trained with dull blades, but Locus seemed intent on breaking Doyle’s ribs. He spoke only in brief statements, directing Doyle to change stances or to dodge, orders which he typically didn’t react to fast enough.

Not even halfway through their time slot, Doyle was incapable of getting up. He was bruised beyond recognition everywhere beneath the shoulder. Locus crouched next to his crumpled form as he heaved for air on the soft dirt. “Get up.” The words brushed past his helmet with some sort of distortion, sparking fear through Doyle’s body. He’d have gotten up if his body would let him.

But it didn’t, and his silence was greeted by a snarl and a large armored hand yanking him by his hair. “We have two more hours, Donald. Get. Up.”

He squeaked as his scalp prickled in pain, and only when he was thrown back to the dirt did Doyle try to reply. “I can’t move...”

“You’re fine. quit stalling.”

When Doyle continued to lay in the dirt, Locus huffed and took his forgotten weapon, returning it to the weapon rack along with his own. He leaned against a dummy and crossed his arms, staring at his student.

“The king expects me to train you from dinner to dusk.”

    Doyle laughed wearily from the ground.

“You’re quite pathetic.”

    “Compared to my brothers, I suppose that’s true. I was proud that I didn’t faint every time you made contact, to be completely honest.”

    The helmet shook in disappointment.

    “Ensure your wounds heal properly. We’ll be alternating between archery and spars, so don’t waste my time by coming here tomorrow.We’ll be in the archery ranges.

“Since it was your first day,” he lifted himself from the wall, “I’ll dismiss you prematurely. Same time tomorrow.”

Locus left without another word, and it was a good twenty minutes before Doyle pushed himself off the ground and stumbled his way to his room.

\---

 

He’d forgotten about her again, and was halfway through disrobing himself before he was reminded. He finished at a slightly faster pace, but made no effort to interact with her. She was reading his book, the flower removed and replaced with thin fingers tracing the words. In the violet mist surrounding her, he caught the prologue echoed. He entered the covers silently, and found himself reading the echoed lines from his position.

“The princess dies,” he muttered.

The echoed lines froze in place, and the girl looked up with the one expression he’d seen her wear so far. She closed the book and threw it at him with her magic, aiming for his nose and hitting him squarely.

_‘Why would you do that?’_

He laughed, shrugging in response. “I had no reason to let you find out yourself. Don’t read my books.”

_‘Don’t read my mist, then!’_

“Start talking, then!” he countered.

She couldn’t think of a retort, instead spawning a violet with a small glowing eye in his blanket, to which he shrieked and frantically tore it from the cloth.

“What purpose does that serve?!”

_‘It made you sound foolish. As for flower-sights, they allow purple magicians to—’_

“Stop that. Magic shouldn’t be used, I don't care what it does magically.”

She shook her head and unfurled. Despite never touching the ground, she made similar motions to walking as she fell a level to “get off the bed.”

Standing in the center of the room, she made several motions with her fingers, and more violets began spawning, several in places Doyle wouldn’t be able to reach.

He started to speak, but stopped as large letters formed in front of him.

_‘Touch my flowers, and I’ll turn your books into fertilizer.’_

An animated violet followed the text, an angry expression plastered on every petal.

Had he not already been beaten up by a knight, Doyle would’ve likely spent the entire night tearing the flowers from the ceiling. But he was sore and tired, and it honestly wasn’t worth risking his books. After all, he hadn’t finished the one she’d already nearly damaged. So, he settled for a whine of “This is dreadful!” before burying himself in blankets.

{}

The next morning was, in a word, painful. In a sentence, it was the most painful morning Doyle had ever experienced in nineteen years of pampered, sparless life, and it was a poor excuse for ‘morning’, as the sun had already reached its peak. His sides burned and his legs wouldn’t move unless Doyle _really_ wanted them to. He had blisters on his hands, which were equally painful and disgusting.

Truly, if not for the girl that floated three feet above him with his book, he likely wouldn’t have made it to his archery training.

She’d heard him stir, his groans hard to ignore. After rereading the same line five times, she closed the book, pinning her page with a flower petal.

She tapped him with a toe and he whined, pushing further into his bed. She pushed him again with her finger and he rolled onto his back with a wince, eyes squinting up at her just above the hem of his blankets.

A muffled “What do you want” came through the fabric, and she wrote out a sentence in response,

_‘You were groaning, I couldn’t focus on the book.’_

“I feel like death,” He attempted to sit up but flopped back into his pillows with a grunt. “And stop reading that, I’m not done with it.”

_‘You’re injured?’_

“I was injured last night, you didn’t notice?”

_‘I wasn’t looking for it, and you were under the blankets by the time I chose to notice you.’_

“Well, I practiced sparring last night for the first time in my life with a professional knight. I’m expected to meet him in the archery range today—I half expect him to put an apple on my head and start firing.”

_‘Would you like treatment?’_

“If you really care enough to fetch the doctor, by all means.”

She shook her head in annoyance, and leaned down once more, pressing forcefully into his chest with a finger. Before he could complain at the pain of it, Doyle quickly identified a glowing silhouette of a flower blooming onto his chest. It unfurled around his body like a growing tattoo until he was entirely covered. It was warm at first, but quickly became unbearable. His sides and legs started to feel tingly, then elevated into sharp stabbing pain. He howled in response, and his eyes squeezed shut. The girl was speaking, but he couldn’t read it.

After several seconds that felt like hours, the pain subsided, and the glowing dissipated. Doyle couldn’t speak as he caught his breath. When he did, it was with a reluctant identification that not only had the pain she afflicted gone, but the bruises from training as well. He raised his hands to find them blisterless.

“Did you use magic on me?!”

He sat up and  checked further down his body, briefly looking up to read _‘You should be thankful.’_

Doyle was not thankful, but he put his newfound strength to good use and gestured wildly as he spoke, “I’m not your damned test subject! You’ve been here barely a day and already my room is a crime scene!”

_‘I could just hurt you again.’_

“You couldn’t lay a finger on we without your sorcery and you know it—I’ve only once held a sword and I have no doubt you couldn’t hurt me.”

A knock resounded on the door and two dressers entered with an assortment of garments, including a bulking white and purple dress.

They sat the clothes on a table and Doyle came forward, allowing them to dress him. White well-fit pants, a golden-colored undershirt and a fitted white waistcoat with golden tags and the royal insignia on his breast, as well as two golden rings and a crownpiece. The dress remained along with a handful of golden and amethyst accessories.

“Miss Grey,” the elder dresser spoke, and the levitating girl looked up.

Doyle was confused. “Miss Grey?” he directed the question to the dressers.

“Miss Emily Grey, the magician,” the younger explained, as  Emily moved to fall closer to the floor and allowed the dresser to begin undressing. He stared in vexation. “You didn’t catch her name?”

Doyle shook his head.

After completing in silence, the dressers took their leave, reminding them that the day’s second meal would be served soon.

“Your name is Emily?”

She answered without looking up, moving her hands and altering her dress into something much lighter and less layered. _‘Emily Grey, yes.’_

Doyle frowned.

“Will you be participating in breakfast, then?”

_‘Probably. Do you want this jewelry?’_

{}

Begrudgingly, Doyle entered the castle’s dining hall, Emily Grey trailing behind him with his book. She had braided her hair, intertwining a flower-sight, much to Doyle’s terror. Such public use of magic went unsupported by him. A handful of people looked up as they entered, a few of his brothers and a few servers, but no one too important.

He took his place at the ninth seat at the table, behind his six siblings, the king and an empty queen’s chair. Emily Grey sat beside him, still hovering just an inch above her chair.

“What has become of her dress, Donald?”

The third in line, Madeline addressed him. She was the crueler kind of woman, and it was never for a good reason Doyle had to talk to her.

“She changed it, with her magic. I had nothing to do with it, Madeline.”

Her nose seemed to turn up at that. “And her jewels? Those were from my collection.”

“They’re still in my room, she took them out before we came.”

Madeline scowled, turning to Emily Grey herself. The lilac air that surrounded her seemed to dip under the table and swirl beneath her chair, condensed and hidden. “What do you have to say for yourself, brat? Those were gifts, I don’t take rejection well.”

Emily Grey was ignoring Madeline, instead reaching out for a plate of meats on the table.

Madeline snarled in offense, and still the magician didn’t pay her any mind. She turned back to Doyle, “I can’t believe you’d commit treason for _that_ , so uncivilized. You haven’t even served yourself and she’s off getting her own.”

“It’s not like that, sister—”

“Madie,” James, the second in line spoke. He was the most like Doyle in the manner of academics; the only of his siblings he’d ever seen in the library in nineteen years. They weren’t close, but they had a mutual respect for each other despite their differences. He was a great ally, if not for his prestigious title, then for his seemingly effortless ability to strike fear into Doyle’s siblings.

Madeline glared at James. “He’s fallen for a magician, James. Are you siding with them?”

“We only learned of her a month ago, and they show no signs of romantics. I suggest you hold your tongue.” James didn’t let her respond, instead pivoting the conversation to Doyle. “Has she spoken to you yet?”

 _‘Say no.’_ A voice resounded in Doyle’s head, and he flinched. “N-no, I’m not sure she even can.”

“From what I understand, the past month yielded a pitiable amount of information.They couldn’t get her to communicate, other than projecting her name into her guard’s heads when they asked.”

Doyle turned to her, finding her nibbling on a roll held in both hands.

“She can do that?”

“Apparently it’s an ability associated with purple magicians. You can determine their abilities from the color of their mist. Supposedly they usually keep it contained, to prevent an identification like that—your little companion never makes the effort, though.”

Daniel, fifth in line, chimed in. “Maybe she has so much she can’t keep it inside. Mason Wu was the purple magician from the Great War, right? Didn’t they always keep theirs out?”

The king cleared his throat and Daniel paled, recognizing the sore spot he’d touched. he looked down to his lap, “Never mind.”

James redirected the conversation to something menial, and for the remainder of the morning meal, Donald sat in silence, eating little. He caught Emily Grey taking food from his plate, and while Madeline looked on with disgust from across the table, Doyle found he didn’t mind permitting it. As soon as he was able he excused himself, and made his way to the library.

He browsed the shelves, and never did he feel more annoyed at the lack of organization. The room was severely neglected, only cleaned when Doyle or James requested it, and only occupied when Doyle, James, or the occasional Court Physician was in the mood to read. There were no scribes or librarians, and the room was often cold and dim. But Doyle liked it. The silence was good for focusing, and the cold kept him alert.

“Emily—”

He turned to speak to her, and found that she was growing flowers along the free shelves.

 _‘What is it?’_ she wrote out in mist.

“First, stop planting more flowers. Secondly, tell me more about... your magic.”

_‘I thought you didn’t like magic.’_

“I don’t, but I want to know what my roommate is capable of. I can’t find any books on it.”

_‘Look for “Siris”.’_

He looked, and came up with one book, _Power and What It Means to Possess It_. “Narcissistic, isn’t he...”

Doyle brought the book to a table by the window, and Emily appeared above him.

_‘Skip to the aura identification, in the back. It should have all sorts of information.’_

Doyle flicked through the pages to the last section, registering small blots of color. He ignored everything before the purple blot. It was the longest section.

_‘The crossing of Red and Blue magic. It is the most common of the three secondary magics; however, it is also the most parasitic. As a blend of the unstable, excessive red magic and the practically poisonous blue magic, it ranks as the second hardest magic to maintain. Similar to blue magic, purple magicians are prone to forming multiple personalities, splitting with their magic side when it endangers their body._

_As with all secondary magic forms, purple magicians are able to hone an assortment of powers from both their parent magics. Like blue magic, purple magic permits telepathy, teleportation, and illusions. Red-wise, purple magicians can also use telekinesis and levitate. Dependent upon where a magician lies in the spectrum, a purple magician will be more capable in red or blue abilities. Those on the red side also appear to possess excessive amounts of power, while those on blue tend to be able to summon flower-sights—a small creature that serves as additional sensory input, allowing the magician to spy from a distance.’_

“So you can do all of these?”

 _‘According to Siris. He’s an expert on magicians. It’s really fascinating seeing as he’s not even one himself.’_ She took the book in a swirl of mist, flipping through the pages. _‘He knows all about the Great War and the three mercenaries.’_

The book flipped around, showing a descriptive sketch of a man painted purple. He was plain, but his ear and eyebrow were noticeably mangled. _‘It’s an artist’s rendition. There’s one for all three of the mercenaries.’_

She flicked to another, showing a orange-painted man with a long face and sharp cheekbones. Though it was only a drawing, it felt like the man was eternally sneering. She flicked through again to a green page, to a man with broad shoulders, tightly tied dark hair and a tidy beard.

“These three, they’re the ones who ended the great war?”

_‘They’re the justification for genocide. I wasn’t alive during the war, you know. I was born after magicians started being hunted. They’re the reason everyone I knew is dead.’_

“The king thinks you’d be like them if you weren’t trained properly. A murderer.”

_‘That isn’t a trait exclusive to magicians. Your father is evidence of that.’_

“He was protecting Armonia!”  
    _‘By killing any magicians that didn’t hide their magic for a year. We’re not all monsters like those three, even if we could be.’_ She took the book from him and returned it to the shelves. _‘Your father wants to make a weapon out of me, to hunt down and fight my own kind. He wants to turn you into one, too.’_

“I beg your pardon?”

_‘That’s why you’re being trained all of a sudden. I come along and the people connected me to you. Even if you fail, losing the seventh heir hardly damages his reputation. With the rumors going around, he can brush you off as an eloper.’_

“But the mercenaries are monsters—you called them that yourself. I’m not a person who could get near them!”

_‘Perhaps not. Thousands of knights couldn’t do it, maybe a rag-tag trio can. Your trainer is coming, too.’_

“How do you know these things?”

She smiled softly, and held out her palm. A small flower blossomed. _‘They’re really quite useful for getting information. I have a few hidden around. In fact, there’s a page at your quarters.’_

It took a moment for Doyle to realise what she meant, then his eyes went wide, and he leapt for the door. “He’ll kill me!” was all he said as he bolted for his room, leaving Emily to herself.

{}

Doyle was not late to the archery range. Locus even seemed caught off guard as he entered the area. It was a sandy courtyard like the sparring fields, but rather than lines of dummies down the sides, a lineup of target boards and dummies sat at the far side. Lanes were built with low wooden stakes, and tables were set up with an assortment of arrows and bows.

“You’re early, I sent for you expecting a delay. Are you uninjured?”

He pushed off of a wooden table and came closer to Doyle, head cocked slightly, observing him. “Your arms aren’t bruised any more.”

“Yes, well,” Doyle took a step back, crossing his arms. “Emily Grey healed me, the magician.”

There was no facial expression to read, but Doyle heard a sigh that felt like life leaving the knight’s body, and his shoulders seemed to rise in caution. “The criminal, she performed magic?”

“She does quite often.”

“She’s a purple one, yes?”

“She is.”

He sighed again, and he took a glance around the range. “No matter. You don’t have any flowers on you, I hope?”

“She hasn’t given me one, just put them in my quarters.”

The knight’s shoulders dropped a fraction of an inch, and he seemed to relax. “Be sure that you don't bring anything of a magician’s to me. Grab a bow, show me what you can do.”

Doyle showed exactly what he could do: next to nothing. His stance was wrong, he was too gentle with the bow, and when he finally managed to make a shot, it was horribly off mark. Locus provided pointers from a distance, never making himself an example or firing an arrow.

By sunset, Doyle hadn’t hit a single target, and despite never even being hit by Locus, his muscles ached and he found himself breathing heavily.

“That’s enough for today.”

The command was definitive, and Doyle was glad to accept and collapse into the sand. Locus picked up the bow he’d dropped and the remaining arrows, moving to put them away. He stopped halfway to the supply bench, looking towards the entrance.

Doyle followed his stare to find a page sprinting towards them.

{}<Prolly needs heavy rewriting imo>

He slowed as he neared Locus, catching his breath.

“What is it?” Locus demanded.

The page coughed, and reported with heavy breaths, “I was meant to clothe Prince Daniel for a ride, but I found him dead! When I alerted the guards, they began searching for a perpetrator, I-I went to tell the King but he’s dead too, and the heir, and Princess Madeleine, and…” He turned with a sense of dread towards Doyle, who was now standing and attentive. “Prince Donald is the first one I know of that isn’t.”

Locus spoke. “Is there a clear cause of death?”

“There was a weapon involved. They look like knife wounds, but the most important detail is that there are magic burns on their chests—the New Republic’s sigil.”

“That old group of bandits managed to kill the entire royal family?” Doyle was pale and felt numb. James, Madeline, Daniel, even his father was dead. But it wasn’t their deaths that frightened him; it was that he was still alive.

“Was it Emily?”

Locus began to move, taking his own slung bow off of his back and heading back to the castle. “No, purple magic isn’t capable of manifesting weapons or creating burns. Grab a bow and some arrows and stay close. She’s not safe.”

Doyle obeyed blindly, taking his forgotten weapon back from Locus and grabbing a new quiver from the table.

“Where did you last see her?”

“The library. What are you doing, don’t you hate her?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Why are you helping her then?”

“She’s being hunted by someone I’m not particularly fond of. Did she ever mention why His Majesty kept her alive to you?”

“Just today, yes. She told me my father wanted us, as well as you to hunt down the mercenaries.”

“Correct. However, It appears he beat us to the point”

\---

Walking towards the castle was a slow and silent process, but as they neared more populated sections, it was clear that the castle would be futile to defend. The long halls and courtyards were littered with crumpled knights and servants. Doyle had to shield his eyes from the sight of the fresh, bleeding corpses, and Locus resorted to dragging him by the forearm.

As they walked, voices rang out, and Doyle found himself bumping into Locus, who stopped to listen. He opened his eyes nervously and found that they were in a cloud of orange mist.

“... six? I thought there were seven… brown hair, freckled skin… think I got ‘em all? Not that it matters, we’ll get any stragglers eventually. Have you found Mason yet?” It was a man’s voice, following light clacking footsteps.

“Felix, this isn’t the time to toy with your food. There haven’t been any purple magician sightings. Have _you_ dealt with the king?”

“Of course I did, have some faith woman!”

Locus pulled the string of his bow suddenly and a green arrow made of light manifested in his hand. He fired, and the man’s voice shouted obscenities. “What the _s_ hit _!_ Kimball get down there’s a magician! Something yellow-based... fucker shot me!”

 _‘He can sense us, run to the library!’_ A voice blasted into Doyle’s brain, and it took him a moment to register it as Locus’. Locus shot a second light arrow and took Doyle’s arm, running until the orange mist thinned and finally died out. Doyle was heaving for air by the time they reached the dead-end hall containing the library.

They entered the library and found it lifeless, barring a flower-sight sitting on a book on the table. Locus stalked up to it, pressing on the eye until the petals closed around it. “She’s alive. I guess he really hasn’t found her yet.”

“What the hell is going on?! What were those arrows? Who were those people? Why did you shoot him—he hadn’t noticed us!”

Locus ignored the prince’s barrage of questions.“She knows we’re here, so she’ll probably pop up any min—”

He jerked his head to the side and put a hand where his ear would be beneath his helmet.

“‘At the fountain’, she says, and to bring a book...” He turned to the table and took the book off of it, glancing at the binding and throwing it to Doyle who caught it gracelessly. “Do you know what she means by fountain?”

He was lost, and at this point chose just to answer numbly. “... There are fountains in the park we met in?”  
    Locus winced again, then nodded, muttering, “I don’t see why she can’t just talk to you separately. Lead the way. We’re evacuating.”

Doyle lead the way, and they were met with empty streets. The park wasn’t horribly distant, and they reached it before the sun vanished from the horizon completely. Emily was perched on the frozen fountainhead, and unfurled as Doyle called to her.

She began writing in the air and Locus, keeping his distance, hissed at her to stop. “Anyone could read that, just mindspeak.”

A voice rang through Doyle’s head, similar to during meal, feminine and pitchy. _‘But the magic wanders, tries to get into memories.’_

Then Locus was in his head too, _‘Just control it, You’ve managed this long.’_

“What’s going on?!” Doyle clutched at his head and looked at the armored man at his side.

_‘Just think, it’s faster that way.’_

_‘What’s going on?!’_

Emily snorted in his brain, and he whined at the unfamiliar sensation.

_‘The bandit group New Republic have infiltrated the castle. A powerful orange magician is working for their leader. He doesn't wear their uniforms, he was hired.’_

_'It’s Isaac Gates, surely.’_

_‘He's been going by “Felix” with the new republic, but he's fairly identical to depictions of the mercenary. His hair is different now, but otherwise he's the spitting image. He’s famous for his desire to hunt down green and purple magicians; it’s likely he’s here for me.’_

Doyle moved to speak before squinting his eyes shut.

_'Are you telling me you’re the reason my family is dead?’_

Locus scoffed while Emily replied, _'It’s possible. But he also hunts green magicians like Locus, so he’s equally to blame.’_

Doyle frowned _, 'You’re one as well?’_

Locus nodded. _‘I am... also a magician. Your father had no knowledge of this. Of course, if people were to discover my affinity, it could’ve caused a dilemma.’_

_‘Locus is a green magician, but part of his magic is sealed. He doesn’t like when I go through his head, there’s some pretty dark stuff in there!’_

Doyle and Locus scowled for separate reasons. Locus shifted his weight and looked towards the blackening sky. “We should get moving.”

He lifted a hand and green mist seeped out of his helmet, building a pool at their feet.

_‘I can teleport us to the outskirts of the capital. It should take the whole night to get to the nearest village from there.’_

Emily jumped into the pool and Locus turned to Doyle, who looked somewhat numb. “This is all a bit sudden, but you can get some rest in the village, clear your head. I’d advise you introduce yourself as ‘Donald’ from now on—the royal name isn’t exactly common.”

He didn’t seem to register what Locus had said, and with a sigh, the knight thrust him into the swirling abyss.

{}

After being tossed into the green pool, Donald promptly vomited until his stomach had nothing left to provide. Locus had no significant reaction and Emily seemed chipper about his illness.

“Can’t you make it stop?” he moaned into the ground as her snickers cascaded through his head.

_‘It’s better to let you get accustomed to the feeling. Two or three more trips and you’ll probably be able to keep it down.’_

“If you’re done, we should start moving. It’s unfortunate we have to walk in the night, but we should be able to reach Reddington by the time the inns open.” He cupped his hands around the mouth of his mask and after a moment released a green orb of light. His helmet tilted towards his grounded companion.

“Are you coming?”

With effort, Donald pushed off of the ground and wobbled towards Locus, who began down the hill they’d come to. “I feel like you’re both forgetting my position. I’m the King now, aren’t I?”

“It’s likely the New Republic has taken command of Armonia’s capital. Their leader is known for her ability to sway a following, You’ll be long forgotten in a manner of days.”

_‘Perhaps when you come back with the head of her little mercenary, she’ll step down. However, as the rightful heir it would be best to return you there as soon as it’s safe.’_

“Then why are we leaving the capital? Shouldn’t we be hunting that bastard down?”

Locus shook his head, “Felix? No. It would be foolish for either of us to fight him, particularly if we need to keep you alive. Orange magic may not be as robust as purple magic, but it’s versatile.”

 _‘As for green magicians,’_ Emily chimed, _‘all they’re good for is support. Especially the way he is now; the best Locus could do is make him trip into a portal.’_

He looked up at her with mild annoyance, then to Donald. “Green is a support magic. The protection magic. Purple magic is the illusionary magic. Orange is the only naturally violent magic of the secondaries, the weaponry magic. We wouldn’t stand a chance regardless of our position.”

Donald frowned in thought, remembering Locus’ light arrows, but brushing it off and taking his word for it. “Then what can we do?”

_‘The best way to get rid of any magic is their opposite. Have you heard of color theory?’_

“I’m familiar with it, yes.”

“The opposite of orange is blue, the mental magician class. It’s unfortunate. Blue magicians rarely come of age before their magic takes over their bodies and kills them. We’ll have to find one if we want to get your throne back.”

**\---**

Reddington was a well-sized city, and the closest city to the capital with a proper market. Locus had wanted to stock up on the necessities, and buy some horses. Donald provided the jewelry for bartering.

As they neared the city’s outskirts, Locus disintegrated his light orb and Emily applied a spell to herself, giving her eyes the proper appearance and hiding her leaking magic from view. “You should stay as low to the ground as you can. Keep from raising suspicions.”

She did, and Locus became the target of the town’s stares, whether he’d desired the attention or not. They passed through the open doors in the walls.

Immediately they were greeted by the marketplace. Bartering voices sang through the streets, yelling vendors, panicking mothers, howling drunkards. If it weren’t for the six foot three full-armored knight, Donald’s trio likely would have blended into the crowd just fine.

But Locus was indeed six foot three, and his armor was glistening in the early sunlight. People continued their shopping as usual, but made way for him. Only one person, a teenager with a massive scar on the right of his face ignored this seemingly silent rule, running full speed into Donald and knocking him down.

“Ohmygosh help me help me!” The boy shrieked as he clung onto Donald, who was pinned helplessly. Locus pulled him off by the back of his tunic and stood him up roughly. “What’s wrong?”

He blinked tearfully and wiped his eyes before looking up to Locus. If he were frightened earlier, Locus must have looked like the grim reaper.

“It’s too late… you’re already here...” his eyes started watering again.

“What’s too late?”

He sniffled and looked at the ground. He raised his wrists together in offering. “It’s okay mister knight, you don’t have to play dumb.”

Locus turned to Emily, then back to the man.

“...Give me your name.”

His eyes remained on the ground. “Franklin Delano Donut, Sir. It’s my real name too, I promise.”

“Donut, then. How old are you?”

“Sixteen, sir.”

“Are your guardians home?”

He looked up, then, eyes wet and reddening, making his green eyes more vibrant. “Yeah, they run the inn, and the Smithery.”

“Take us to the inn.”

    “Us?”

    Despite having run into Donald, this seemed to be the first time he realized he and Emily were there. He scanned over their clothes and must have registered something.

    “You’re… not here to arrest me?”

    “Should I be?”

    He squeaked, and shook his head. “Of _course_ not! I’m totally not harbouring a criminal, thus making _myself_ a criminal! Hahah… The inn! Right, I’ll take you guys right away, follow me!”

    Donut hurried away, and after sharing confused glances, the group chose to trail behind him.

Emily stated the obvious, _‘So… he’s absolutely hiding a magician.’_

_‘Indeed.’_

_\---_

Donut lead them down a tangle of busy, convoluted roads until he proudly stopped beneath a hanging sign, “ _Blood Gulch Outpost_ ”.

“We don’t open until the evening, but Kai won’t mind if you’re from the capital.”

Donald seemed surprised. “How—”

“Your clothes, moron.” Locus pushed past the teenager and opened the door himself.

Three people occupied the bar, along with the bartender who was busy cooking. None of them turned to see who entered.

Donut entered behind Locus, closely followed by Emily and Donald. “Hey guys! I got’cha some customers!”

An old, muscular man and the bartender were the only to turn around, and both seemed less than pleased.

The man stood from his stool and stormed up to Donut. “Son, the hell you thinkin’ bringin’ a knight here?! Shoot Donut, you tryin’ ta die?!”

“We’re not telling you nothin, _Knight_! We have rights!” The bartender bristled.

“You’re all horrible at being discreet,” Donald murmured from his place by the door. Emily nodded.

“It’s fine, guys! He’s just an escort for those two, he won’t arrest us.”

“Wait, ‘arrest _us_ ’? Don’t group us into your crime!” A slimmer man with ruddy hair piped, pointing a carrot accusingly.

“Whatever, he isn’t here for that.”

“Then we’re closed, fuck off and come back in the evening.”

The voice’s owner was a heavier-set man, contrasting the ginger he sat next to. He stood as he spoke, taking his drink with him and leaving the bar to join the strangers at the door. “I’m the innkeeper. We don’t treat assholes from the capital city any different from a beggar, so you can wait until dinner. ‘Gulch opens then.”

Locus stalked closer and the innkeeper held his ground, expression relaxed, if not bored, “The capital has fallen, and we’ve walked all night from the castle. I’m short on patience and have sufficient funds to compensate for our intrusion. So, if you wouldn’t mind, I’ll buy a room.”

“The capital fell? What sorta nonsense are you spittin’ boy?”

Donald spoke up, “There was an organised attack against the castle. Anyone from the royal family is either dead or missing, and the attackers have taken control for now.” His voice wavered at the report, but his eyes stayed firmly on the elder man. “A room, please.”

“An’ who might y’all be, how should we believe the castle’s gone?”

Donald moved to speak but Locus’ voice hushed him in his head. “Donald is a castle scribe, and Miss Grey is the court physician. They were all I could manage to evacuate.”

The innkeeper eyed up the knight stone-faced before sighing heavily. He turned to Emily, “You’re a doctor?”

Donald piped up, “She is—”

“Can’t let the lady speak for herself?”

“She’s mute,” Locus growled, and Emily nodded affirmation. The innkeeper sighed again. “Whatever. She’s a doctor then?”

“Yes.”

“If you can lend us your doc, you’ve got free room and board. The town’s only half-decent medic has been bedridden for some time, maybe she can give us some insight.” He put up his hand in offering to Locus. “Name’s Grif. My sister Kaikaina runs the bar, just call her Sis. The senile one’s Sarge, Donut’s the idiot, and Simmons is the kissass.”

Sarge, Donut, and Simmons all growled at their provided descriptors. Locus looked to Emily, and she nodded. He took Grif’s hand.

“I’m Locus. The boy is Donald, and the doctor is Emily. I’d prefer if you not keep the doctor without my supervision.”

Grif retracted his hand and shrugged. “That’s fine, don’t want to make it seem like we’re separating you. I’d appreciate you keeping that armor off if you’re going to be hanging around the bar. The kingdom’s soldiers aren’t very appreciated here.”  
    Donald spoke up again, much to Locus’ disdain. “Why is this town so afraid of knights?”  
    Grif frowned, and turned to Sarge who grumbled and crossed his arms against his chest. “You said the capital’s a bit of a mess now, right?”

“We did.”

The air in the room seemed to shift, if only slightly. Sarge quaffed his beer and the younger men seemed to share a worrisome look.

“Well, that’s just how y’all high and fancy types see it. Armonia’s been a mess ever since the damned Magician purges. Weren’t too long ago, and people were never exactly given a sign to stop. No one’s found the damned Mercenaries and they ain’t gonna. Some people take that as a sign to stop seein’ Magic folks as animals to hunt, some take it as a challenge. This town, and the other down the road, Blueford or somethin’, we chose to protect ‘em.”

Donut spoke up, “The knights that tend to patrol our towns don’t exactly share our mindset. Magicians are playthings to them.”

“So you’re a town of criminals,” Donald resolved.

“Sure, we’re a town of criminals,” Grif glared at the taller man with narrow eyes, “But we’re a town of _armed_ criminals, so if you’ve got a problem with magicians then the deal’s off.”

“We have no problem with magicians,” Locus hissed, helmet turning to face Donald who quickly evaded the stare. “However, I’d prefer you keep us in the know of who is and isn’t one.”

“Good enough. There’s rooms upstairs, only two beds each so you can take two, I guess.”

“Thank you, but one is sufficient.”

\---

Their room was furnished with the necessities, two beds and a waist high dresser between them. Donald fell into the left bed as soon as he could reach it, and was snoring quietly in no time at all. Emily drifted above him, staring at him with a cocked head and a smile. Locus’ clanking armor and a quiet grunt as he sat against the door made her attention shift.

_‘Keeping watch like the little soldier you are?’_

_‘Of course I am.’_ His head fell back, helmet clunking loudly into the wood and making him jump.

Emily laughed at his flinch from the noise. ‘ _Sleep, I have to stay alert to watch the flowersights in the bar. I’ll stir you if I see anything.’_

He sighed, looking to the lumpy bed, about a foot shorter than him in length. Despite its shortcomings, it was inviting.

His hands drifted to the latches of his chestplate, but they hesitated to make contact.

_‘It’s fine, I already know.’_

    He looked towards the sleeping prince before nodding and fumbled the chestplate off, his arm and leg pieces following. None of the cacophony stirred the prince and all that remained was his helmet.

    _‘I’ll have to fix your eyes and make you less… you. Any requests?’_

    _‘Change my face a bit, the hair color at least, and the… the scar.’_

_‘Can’t change it if I can’t touch it, Sam.’_

A sigh followed before Locus finally unlatched the helmet, pulling it off and putting it on the ground beside him.

    _‘Look up. I can’t fix it if you’re staring at the floor.’_

    He straightened up, and every part of his face expressed weariness. His glowing green eyes were half lidded, and the lines of his face expressed his true age. His long greying hair was matted by the helmet and stuck to his face.

    She smiled and, in a kneeling position, matched his sitting height. Her hand lifted, resting against his stubbled jaw as she looked into his eyes and traced his scar with her stare. _‘Siris wasn’t far off.’_

    “Just do it already,” He couldn’t match her gaze.

    She pulled his hair back, stroking it with her fingers, pouring mist into it, _‘What color?’_

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he murmured.

    She continued, and resolved to blacken the grey hairs. Her hands moved down to his face again, thumbs tracing his glowing green scar and wiping it away. She tapped his eyes gently, and grey swirled into them, the glow fading away as pupils bloomed.

    When her hands retracted, Locus moved to touch the scar, to check if it was still there.

_‘Better?’_

    He nodded, and rubbed at his neck, checking his hair color. He breathed out and stood to move to the bed.

    _‘Don’t give me nightmares or you’re not getting your end of the deal.’_

    A series of uncontrolled giggles brushed through his head.

_‘Awh, it’s not like you need my help getting those.’_

His eyebrows furrowed, and he squinted up at her. _‘And stop snooping.’_

    She smiled down at him but offered no response.

    ---

Donald woke to clamouring in the bar below, and was greeted with sharp pain in his back and a dry mouth. Locus and Emily were absent, and he was starving.

    Finding no reason to stick around for his companions, Donald pulled himself out of the bed and made his way down the stairs to a bar full of patrons. Grif and Sister stood behind the bar, but they were the only remotely familiar faces.

    He sat in one of few empty barstools, eyeing the glum man next to him while Sister neared him. “What’ll it be, Mister Capital?”

    Taking the nickname in stride, he shrugged faintly. “Your choice, and something to drink.”

    She nodded, and barked an unfamiliar string of words to her brother, busying himself with cooking meat. She poured him a beer before attending to the others at the bar.

    He nursed it cautiously and took in the room. Everyone seemed to speak at a volume level much higher than necessary, and it was clear that a significant number of patrons were past their drinking limit. A fight was breaking out near the back, but neither of the owners seemed to pay them any mind, occupying themselves with filling drinks and feeding everyone. The only person that seemed out of place was the man next to him. He was large and muscular in stature, and wore a simple brown tunic a shade darker than his skin tone and smelled like horses. He was on his sixth beer if the cups in front of him were anything to assume from, but he looked sober. His eyes were fixated in front of him, and his free hand drummed against the bar.

    Donald would’ve been content to sit in silence with the man, but he turned just in time to see him staring. “¿Qué es?” He spoke monotonously, staring at the prince.

    “Er—terribly sorry, I just noticed that you were the only one that wasn’t practically shouting, I didn’t mean to stare.”

He turned back to his starting position, and Donald took a breath of relief.

The man spoke again. “Bueno, soy estoy de un humor particularmente sombrío. Normalmente bebo con mi amo y sus compañeros. sin embargo, han sido ocupados recientemente con el Señor Donut mago encontró, y ahora que tienen un médico—”

Donald had no idea what the man was saying and was relieved when Grif stalked up with a plate of steaming vegetables and meat for Donald and beers for both the prince and the stranger next to him. As he set the items down, he directed his attention to the stranger. “Lopez, shut the hell up, no one understands you, man.”

He took the beer with a flat expression “Donut hace en raras ocasiones.”

Grif shook his head and turned to Donald. “Just ignore him, He’s from a different kingdom, speaks some weird language. He’s a good smuggler, though, provides horses when we need ‘em. Your friends are probably at his place right now, too. Donut lives with him and the Doc.”

“Es irónico, el hombre que necesitamos tratar es un médico de sí mismo. Él es un estúpido médico apenas puede curar pero Señor Donut lo ama así que él debe vivir.”

“Lopez, would you mind taking him to your place when he’s done?”

Though he nodded in agreement, Lopez grumbled, “No me importaría, pero me harás tomarlo de una manera indiferente.” He lifted his drink and didn’t set it down until it was done.

Grif seemed satisfied at his answer, and dismissed himself to return to cooking. Donald made quick work of his platter, and was soon enough following the foreigner to the stables.

Having slept late into the day, Donald was surprised to find the sun already low in the sky. The streets were flourishing once more with an evening crowd. Many passersby shouted greetings to Lopez as he walked to the horses, who was either not listening or not caring to reply. Lopez took a massive black horse from the shelter and mounted silently before looking down to Donald, who was petrified at the gateway.

He leaned down and offered a hand, “No te preocupes. Puma es grande, pero inofensivo.”

Donald stepped forward but hesitated to join Lopez on the horse. It turned and huffed a breath of vaporous, warm air towards him.

He must’ve blacked out. He didn’t remember climbing onto the horse, but there he was, on the back of the beast as she made her way down the road. His arms were tight around the foreigner’s torso, and as embarrassed as he felt for it he couldn’t make his arms slacken. Lopez had been talking, from his cadence telling a story that Donald would have no chance of understanding. It was the horse that seemed to be attentive to his words, ears angled to listen. In a beat of silence, Donald found himself commenting on their relationship. “You must adore horses...”

Lopez replied with a flurry of words, and a hand moved to pet the girl’s neck.

Whether it was Lopez’s continued relaxed and monotonous speech or the trust between owner and horse, Donald found himself calming down as the buildings turned to fields along the roadside. The horse slowed in front of a larger cottage, and Lopez directed her into the property. He stopped her by a side porch and leapt off, before again offering Donald assistance with a gesture and more unfamiliar words. He accepted, and found himself being pulled off and into the man’s arms, bridal style.

Before he could disentangle himself, the door to the home creaked and the scar-faced boy appeared on the porch. He gasped and covered his mouth with both hands. “What a romantic Lopez! Flirting with the capital boy, how scandalous.”  
    Lopez’s face twitched, and he dropped Donald gracelessly. “Tu no entiendes. Vino a ver a sus compañeros. No debes dejar a Doc solo con un caballero.”

Donut dropped his hands and yelped. “Oh gosh, I left Doc all alone!”

He darted back into the house, and with a sigh Lopez stalked after him, leaving Donald to scramble to his feet and follow, only turning back to wonder if the horse should be cared for, but she seemed to welcome herself to the yard. He went inside.

Donald caught up quickly, and Lopez lead him down a hallway and into a bedroom on the left. Inside were Emily, Donut and a bedridden man with burning purple eyes and a pained expression. He pointed a query to Donut, “Is this the patient your friends mentioned in the bar?”

Donut nodded and sniffled dramatically. “We call him Doc. He’s a magician, but always kept it hidden until recently. It’s been fighting him, now he can barely leave the bed!”

_‘It’s manageable. He just needs to wait out the pain. Tell Donut to get some warm water and a clean cloth.’_

He offered a sympathetic smile to the now weeping man, “Donut, perhaps a warm washcloth would be good for his health?”

Donut nodded woefully, and excused himself to gather the things.

As his sniffles faded,  the room fell silent, the only sounds the patient’s wheezy breathing and the bedsheets shifting.

That is, until the patient spoke. He didn’t seem to be speaking to anyone but himself, even replying with a different, growling voice. Donald would have shrugged it off as a feverish man’s ramblings, if it weren’t for Emily’s narrowing expression.

One of the voices was straining through pain as it mumbled, “O’malley… enough...”

The other came through a lopsided grin much clearer than it’s counterpart, “Oh, just give in, Frank, it’s easier that way.”

_‘O’malley seems to be his magic’s name. Purple and blue magicians can have this problem; being possessed by their magic.’_

“He’ll be okay?” Donald deliberated on coming closer to the bed, but chose against it as the growling voice started cackling again.

Emily hummed an affirmation in his head. _‘Yes, I don’t think this is the first time for him, despite what Donut says.’_

She poised a hand above the curled up man, and a dark purple cloud tangled around it from his mouth and eyes.

O’mally growled a question, “Mason?”

_‘No. My name is Emily.’_

He replied in turn through telepathy, Donald excluded from the link.

She didn’t respond, and the patient’s body wracked with a mesh of laughter and pain.

“Felt familiar.”

She closed her fist sparks flickering, and the cloud dissipated through the room. Doc coughed in response.

_‘He’s interesting. I’ve never seen such a vocal magic.’_

“Are you so familiar with other magicians that you would expect to see one?”

She didn’t respond, and it didn’t matter, as footsteps started down the hallway.

Locus entered with a washcloth, helmet off, revealing an uncomfortable looking frown.

“The crying man asked me to bring this,” he huffed, lamely, eyes fixed on Emily.

“You have a face.”

Not the best phrasing, perhaps, but Donald found the words coming out without his permission. The knight glared back, grey eyes squinting in challenge. “Should that surprise you?”

“N-no, I’ve just never seen it.” He offered. “You’re young.”

Locus snorted at the prospect and turned to give the towel to Emily.

“I’m more than twice your age, wouldn’t call that young.”

_‘You’re embarrassing him, Donald. He hates his how he looks.’_

“Why? It’s not like he’s got some terrible scar like Donut has.”

Donald could swear he saw Locus wince at the argument.

Emily grinned gently, _‘No, he doesn’t.’_

The magicians shared a look that surpassed the prince’s notice, And before he could push the subject, Locus spoke. “It’s late, and unless your presence is servicing the patient we have no further reason to be here.”

Donald frowned. Having only just gotten here, he would’ve liked to see more of Emily’s work from a spectator’s view. He didn’t argue, however, and he felt Locus wouldn’t have listened if he had.

They left the room, and as Emily and Donald made for the door Locus stopped by the tear streak faced Donut and a petrified Lopez to provide farewells. He saw Donut stand to hug Locus and felt a grin tug at his mouth to see the scar faced boy burying his tearstained cheeks into the uncomfortable knight’s chest.

He pulled away and shook his head on his way to the door.

‘ _Making friends?_ ’

Locus glowered at Emily, who didn’t fight the urge to grin at his discomfort.


End file.
